On “This Silent World” by Kay SageYou were a poor man, who knew but a little, until suddenly, you knew more than Adam. Did that knowledge burst like umbrellas or fester like mushrooms in secret places? When you stumbled out four days later, into this silent world, were you astonished or yawning after a little sleep? Did the world yawn with you, rocks like teeth, the ground a shudder-grey? I go to that place. I choose it. Black like the insides of eyelids, black like dirt under fingernails, black like recalling a dream too late, the color of slipping. Did you see me there? We lived and died about two thousand years apart, but did you know no life, no narrative is a straight line, especially those who choose bullets for punctuation? Did you learn geometry in school? You probably didn’t go. I made rays first, then paintings, going right to left. I have no note for you, only notes for the end of useless light. But, fellow tomb-dweller, while you were in the blackened place, did you hear my song? O Lazarus, I have questions and answers for you too I haven't come back yet but when I do You'll all go shadow-waltzing in your Sunday blues On “Tomorrow is Never” by Kay SageWe’ll put them out to sea. They are quiet and smell of hair on pillow. We won't even bother with food. They can catch gull and whale, although they are soft-bodied and gummed. We know how they can devour. Behind cages and out to sea, their tomorrow is never our problem. No matter that animals now alarm. No matter that now our bones feel stippled with cancer, and film covers our eyes. We’ll just put them out to sea. They are quiet, but so are stains and scars. We'll try not to sail past them, because if we do we'll feel we’ve swallowed pieces of moon. On “Le Passage” by Kay SageTwigs and broken lungs are the same here-- a space for something to be furthered or complete but isn't. Everyone has their preferences. Phantasmaphile they called me and worse. Take your fetish for rubber and apply it to your whole life. I find calm in staring at blocks that could be anything. They stretch out like the sea. You wouldn't love me if I turned to face you. Look instead at my golden head. It glows as if ordained. Do not speak. What you could say outstrides what you will. I have the back of a scalpel. Sleep for dinner, wait for rain. On “Suspension Bridge for the Sparrows” by Kay Sage I wanted to love you like doing up buttons: to take up completely and then be still. Nadia Arioli is the co-founder and editor in chief of Thimble Literary Magazine. Their recent publications include Penn Review, Cider Press Review, Kissing Dynamite, Heavy Feather Review, and San Pedro River Review. They have chapbooks from Cringe-Worthy Poetry Collective, Dancing Girl Press, Spartan, and a full-length from Luchador. They were nominated for Best of the Net in 2021 by As It Ought to Be, West Trestle Review, Angel Rust, and Voicemail Poems.
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